We All Fall Down
by AMKelley
Summary: Sherlock tries not to be the bad guy but it's rather difficult when he doesn't have any say in the matter. He never asked to be born this way and he's not proud of it either. *AU, Pedophilia, OOC, Kid!John (only in first chapter), Pedo!Sherlock, Creepy fluff, Years later, Future Johnlock?, WIP*
1. Backstory

There's nothing graphic or sexual towards minors. That'd make anyone uncomfortable since John is 11 (only in the first chapter) but there are obvious hints and motives on Sherlock's part that suggest something is a little off. There might be future Johnlock (between consenting adults, of course) Please read at you own volition.

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Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself because he isn't. Well, in some ways he had a lot to be proud of, like his job or his gift of observation. But there were certain aspects about himself that were enough to even make him feel a little ashamed about.

He knew he could be selfish at times, only helping others when it suited his fancy and uncaring of how it affected the people around him. Sherlock wasn't the most compassionate or sympathetic person either and it put a heavy strain on his chances of making any friends in the future. But Sherlock wasn't interested in friends or compassion...

Which is why he often found himself sitting alone in a park that was just down the street from his flat. Sherlock came around a lot but no one ever seemed to pay him much attention. No one cared, or noticed for that matter, because it was common to see people sitting by themselves. They usually came around to clear their head or simply relax.

Sherlock never came here for either of those reasons, though he wish he had. It was almost nearly impossible for Sherlock to get clutter-minded with his thoughts, so coming up with a good lie to justify why he came here was rather difficult. He hadn't come for the birds or the air. Air was everywhere so what made it any different over here?

No... Sherlock knows exactly why he always finds himself coming back to this particular bench in this particular park. The reason is young and energetic and running around the jungle gym carelessly. It is clambering up small stairs and giggling as it slides all the way down smooth plastic.

He wants to look away out of shame and guilt but the temptation is too much to tear his eyes from the young boy climbing all over the jungle gym, unaware of the eyes that observe him openly. It's an act that could warrant caution for any passers-by but there's no one else around, save for a few other children and their mothers chatting away at a nearby table. Sherlock can tell that they're not even paying attention.

But they really should, Sherlock muses to himself.

Because there are people like him lurking around. Sherlock's not a predator and he's well aware of what's right and wrong, which is why he never acts upon his urges. He knows watching is no better or acceptable but Sherlock honestly feels like this is doing no harm. Nobody has to know what he's thinking about when he stares at boys and nobody has to get hurt.

Sherlock tries not to be the bad guy but it's rather difficult when he doesn't have any say in the matter. He never asked to be born this way and he's not proud of it, but the fact still remains that this is who he is and this is what he likes. As sick as it sounds. There's just no way of justifying his attraction to younger boys, namely the one he's been watching for some time now.

He's a tiny little thing so it's hard for Sherlock to pinpoint his exact age but if he had to guess he'd say somewhere between ten and thirteen. Somewhere above ten for sure. Sherlock made it a habit to draw the line at that age because he was trying to get better and be normal so he could like adults his own age, but it was rough. His mind wanders off elsewhere before he can distinguish what's good and what's bad.

The boy has big ears that poke out of his mop of blonde hair and a long nose that's big for any boy his age, but Sherlock finds his subtle mousy features all the more adorable. He's sporting a striped jumper with shorts and a rather worn pair of tennis shoes. Sherlock also notices that he's all alone because he never breaks off to play with the other kids and there are only three mothers nearby, assuming each of them has a kid.

It's not really important to Sherlock but he notices it nevertheless. It's not like he's plotting to do something irrational or try to "make a move" so to speak, he just can't get over the fact that this poor boy is by himself. Playing alone, no friends... Much like Sherlock, but this kid is smiling and happy like a hedgehog in a hole. How can he be so happy when he's all alone?

Sherlock is so good at figuring people out but when it comes to emotions he has no clue. But Sherlock decides that children have a lot of silly reasons to be happy. They could see a butterfly and their day would be off to a great start. The promise of ice cream alone is enough to make them hyper, but that's somewhat understandable. Kids want fun and sugar. Plain and simple.

There is a momentary lapse in Sherlock's musings when someone walks by and he pretends to not be gawking towards the playground, but it only makes him more guilty looking. No one seems to notice this, though. Sherlock is quite transparent and he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. The mothers really should be paying more attention, then again Sherlock shouldn't be here indulging in his illness.

The blonde boy comes trotting around near where Sherlock is sitting, hair bouncing with each heavy footfall, and trips over his goofy feet when a shoelace comes undone. Sherlock watches the kid do a face plant into the concrete walkway, but the kid's face is unharmed and his attention is elsewhere because he's scraped his knee from the fall.

He immediately collects himself to clutch at his knee with a sour looking grimace but despite the obvious pain and sight of blood the kid doesn't whine or shed a tear. Sherlock feels the need to help him, comfort him in some way, but that is wishful thinking. But then the boy pushes out his bottom lip and looks directly over at Sherlock, whether it's on purpose or accident is a whole other story.

Suddenly, Sherlock feels put on the spot since this kid is looking to the first friendly face he sees, asking silently for help, and who is Sherlock to deny him assistance? Without thinking it any further through, Sherlock pushes himself up from the bench and stalks over to where the blonde boy is on the ground, clutching at his wound.

Sherlock's tall and looming figure eclipses the sun to cast his long shadow over the boy. The kid looks up slowly, almost cautiously, and stares at him with puppy eyes that shimmer with a sliver of trust. The man is tall and slender with black hair, a dark coat, and a purple scarf. Sherlock thinks the kid has poor judgment in making allies, but he kneels down beside the kid nevertheless to stoop to his level.

"Nasty little fall you took there," Sherlock observes, clasping his hands together as he looks over to the mothers and other children who remain completely oblivious. "What's your name?"

"John Watson, sir," the boy says respectfully, staring at the adult from under his lashes meekly.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he tells John as he sticks his hand out. John's significantly smaller hand grasps his and they shake awkwardly a few times, but John smiles and laughs a little. "What?"

"You have a silly name," John giggles sweetly and Sherlock should be a little offended but John's face lights up, seeming to forget about the pain in his knee.

"Well, you have a silly nose," Sherlock remarks playfully as he taps the tip of John's long nose.

John doesn't take it to heart but rather giggles even more, which is a good sign because Sherlock meant no offense by it. His nose was adorable. This seems to break the ice a little and John is no longer shy or cautious, letting his smile shine bright.

"Are you alright, John Watson?" Sherlock asks after the laughter dies down a little.

Sherlock reaches out to move one of John's hands out of the way to see how badly skinned his boney knee is. Not too gruesome or bloody but it still looks painful and Sherlock thinks he can see the irritated skin throbbing from here. John lets Sherlock look him over for a for more seconds.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asks after his first question goes unanswered, prodding at the area around the wound. John winces slightly when Sherlock prods too close. "Sorry..."

"It's alright, Mr. Holmes. It doesn't hurt too badly," John promises with a small smile.

"Does this happen often then?" Sherlock inquires, observing a week old scab on one of John's pointy elbows.

"Yeah, sometimes on accident. Most of the time on purpose," John admits and Sherlock gives him a funny look. "I want to be a doctor when I grow up so I need all the practice I can get."

Sherlock chuckles deeply at the kid's rather silly logic, but he finds it quite endearing.

"You seem a little young to be making decisions like that," Sherlock eggs on slightly, indirectly asking for John's age, and it works.

"I'm not that young! I'm thirteen!" John protests like the child he is but Sherlock gives him an unconvinced smirk. John sighs, "Alright, I'm eleven..."

"Are you sure?",Sherlock questions, rustling John's blonde hair playfully. "You're rather short for a boy who's almost in secondary."

John swats Sherlock's hand away with a frustrated little giggle, hating being treated like a kid but finding it heart warming that an adult can be so cool and just as playful. And this news makes Sherlock wonder why John is letting a stranger get in his space and talk to him.

"Mum says I just haven't hit my growth spurt yet," John tells Sherlock, crossing his arms across his chest in frustration.

"I'm sure she's right," Sherlock agrees, smiling down at John. "Speaking of your mum, where is she? Shouldn't she be watching you and tending to your boo boos?"

"She works, sir," John mumbles with a forlorn frown, hugging his injured leg. "But I can take care of myself just fine!"

"Oh, yes, of course! You're practically an adult now!" Sherlock is purposefully mocking John but not in a snotty way. He's playing at reverse psychology to peek the kid's interest further.

"Well, since you're a kid I guess you won't be needing this," Sherlock brushes off with nonchalance as he conveniently hides something colorful and wrapped in plastic.

John's eyebrows quirk and his eyes follow the movement, his curiosity stirring as he tries to get sight of what Sherlock is hiding from him. John reaches out to pull Sherlock's hand out in hopes of seeing what he has but is too late.

"Oi! What have you got?" John moans, put off by the fact he was denied something sweet.

"Oh, it's nothing..." Sherlock assures, tucking away the small object and making the plastic crinkle.

"You've got sweets!" John exclaims as he comes to the realization.

"Just a lolly and it's hardly any good for an adult such as yourself..."

John's lips purse together as he pouts petulantly, showing just how much of a child he still is, and Sherlock chuckles at the notion. Seeming somewhat satisfied with himself Sherlock relents and pulls the lolly out of his coat, handing it over to John who snatches it hastily, afraid that the adult might change his mind. It's a sick game Sherlock plays but he can't help it.

John rips the wrapper off and latches his mouth onto the lollipop like one of those fish that sticks to the walls of a fish tank. Sherlock beams a warm smile as he watches John's face light up with wonder. His mousy features range from wonder to excitement to delight and judging by the faces John makes Sherlock is sure John is happy.

There's a pang in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, a twinge that makes him feel nauseous and guilty all along his body. Too far, Sherlock scolds himself. Too far. He doesn't have any ulterior motives but his intentions aren't precisely pure either. Sherlock is keeping some sort of wall between John and himself and he's trying to limit physical contact.

Sherlock isn't afraid of losing control. He has great impulse control, especially when it comes to matters like this. But he's afraid that someone will mistake his kindness as perversion. He's trying to get better but it doesn't really help that he's still coming around here to watch boys like John play.

"You seem rather anxious to grow up," Sherlock observes, brushing a few strands of blonde hair out of John's face. "Why is that?"

John stops sucking on the lollipop and pulls it out to answer Sherlock.

"This is my last summer before I go off to secondary school," John explains to him almost sadly. John's face takes on a dreadful shade of white, paling at his next words. "My mum's ill and she thinks I don't know... I need to be big for her and hurry up so I can't help her. I can't do that when I'm small..."

Sherlock didn't think it would touch his heart but it did. Here was this kid who was purposely hurting himself and intent on growing up so he can become a doctor to help his ill mum. The same mum that worked for a living and had hardly anytime to spend with her child, from what John had told him.

"It's not that I want to grow up, Mr. Holmes... But I don't have much of a choice anymore..."

John's bottom lip trembled ever so slightly and before Sherlock could think rationally or stop himself, he reached out to wrap his arms around the young boy, adjusting his squatting position to a kneel. He collected John in his arms and let him cling to his shoulders. It was far too intimate and lingered a little too long but Sherlock's mind was clear on this one. He was doing this for John, not himself.

"It's alright now, John. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be angry or any other feelings you might be experiencing," Sherlock murmurs into the side of John's blonde hair. He rubs a hand up and down John's back, trying his best to sooth the young boy. "We all fall. Sometimes we get back up and dust ourselves off but sometimes we stay down."

Sherlock pulls away from John, letting his hands cup John's face and lingering too long. Sherlock looks directly into John's eyes and shows him something he thought he was never capable of: compassion. John's eyes are icy and frozen over with tears that dare to spill down his cheeks but refrains from letting go, because he NEEDS to be strong.

"The only thing you can do now is dust yourself off and show your mum just how much you love her before she falls, John. Do you understand?" Sherlock asks as his big hands hold up John's head. John nods, letting just a few tears cascade down his rosey cheeks.

"Yes, sir."

"Now run home," Sherlock tells the boy, nodding his head off into a random direction. "When your mum comes home, hug her tight and don't let go. She needs a son now more than ever. Not a doctor."

There is some realization in Sherlock's words that John seems to understand, like reality has finally hit him. His mum can not be saved no matter what doctor she has and the only thing she wants is company before she goes. John sniffles and nods shakily, finding this bitter news hard to swallow but accepting it all the same.

Sherlock lets go of John's face and stands up, looming over John like before, to offer a hand to the boy. John takes Sherlock's hand and lets himself be pulled up onto his shaky feet, feeling the dull ache in his knee when he does. John smoothes out his trousers and looks up to Sherlock to give him a faint smile.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John beams brightly despite the somewhat somber underlining emotions.

"You're welcome, Dr. Watson," Sherlock grins back, rustling the blonde mop of hair one last time before John sticks his lollipop back in his mouth and takes off for his home.

Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself, but this was a start.


	2. Eight Years Later

It's a curious thing how fate works, but Sherlock has never been too keen on stuff like that. He wouldn't exactly call it destiny because that would imply once again that it was fate. Sherlock wouldn't go as far as to call it coincidence either but whatever it was it knocked him right off of his feet and slapped him across the face. But he's getting ahead of himself...

His day had started off normal enough, if not a little dull. Sherlock had no case or anything of importance to tend to, though he had many offers from Mycroft. He wasn't interested in doing Mycroft's dirty work no matter how bored he was and he always loved the look of contempt that usually followed soon after. At least that was able to brighten up Sherlock's day a little, if only momentarily.

"You must keep yourself more occupied, brother dear," Mycroft had chided him in that familiar taunt he's managed to keep up to par all these years. "God knows what measures you'll go through to sate your boredom."

"You never took an active interest in my personal life before. Why all of a sudden?" Sherlock had replied, perhaps a little too defensive, but the way Mycroft had worded his sentence... it nagged at the back of his mind.

Sherlock has never told anyone about himself or his problems simply because they never asked and even if they did he would never say anything anyway because it was none of their business. But Mycroft had that look. It was that face he made when he knew something Sherlock didn't mixed in with a tinge of guilt for knowing it and not saying anything.

"I'm worried about you, that's all," Mycroft assured with well practiced concern. Feelings weren't exactly a trait that ran in the Holmes blood line, so any hint emotion was obligatory to sound ungenuine.

"You have no reason to be?" Sherlock inquired, squinting his eyes and turning his head slightly. It wasn't exactly a question but he wasn't entirely confident with his statement either. "Empathy isn't your strongest suit, Mycroft. If I were you, which I'm terribly pleased not to be, I'd suggest you refrain from pretending to care. Most people don't like to be patronized."

It was defensive and harsh and completely uncalled for but Sherlock isn't known for being compassionate or caring of other people's feelings, if Mycroft still had any that is. Mycroft's face fell short just but it was enough for Sherlock to see. Perhaps Mycroft was concerned after all, but what of? Sherlock wasn't sure but...

"But you aren't most people, Sherlock," Mycroft tells him resolutely.

"Good day," Sherlock dismissed shortly before stomping off with a storm could above his head.

...it nagged at him for the rest of the day.

Shortly after his visit with Mycroft, on the cab ride home, Sherlock started to ponder on what Mycroft could be so worried about. Sherlock got into his fair share of trouble, sure, but it was expected of him to clash with the law from time to time, so that couldn't be it. The only thing Mycroft cared about was the grit of Sherlock's faults mucking up his good name.

Sherlock gazed out the window, watching the mundane musings of pedestrians as they passed by fleetingly. He sighed his discontent for the whole world to hear even if that only meant the cabbie, but he wasn't interested in Sherlock's problems. Why would he? They weren't his to be concerned about. But still, Sherlock's mind dwelled too much on Mycroft's remark.

"But you aren't most people, Sherlock."

What had Mycroft meant by that? Was he referring to the time he fired off a gun just because he was bored to tears? That was just an isolated incident and no one was hurt, or even around for that matter. Sherlock was aloof and did the unexpected all the time just because he could. If Sherlock didn't get into trouble everyone would think something was wrong with him. Then again, they probably wouldn't question it that much after all. It wasn't his smoking either because Sherlock had kicked that habit months ago and was doing relatively well. Besides, a lot of people smoked.

There was a momentary lapse in his thought process when the cab slowed down to a stop at a traffic light. Sherlock looked out the window and towards the neighborhood playground. Eight years have passed and it still looked the same as it did the first day he moved to this street. The crowd was the only thing that really seemed to change. Then again, that much was obvious.

In a sense, in the deep dark recesses of Sherlock's mind, he somehow watched all these kids grow up. Over the years he'd watch the kids get older until there finally came a day when they had no more use for slides and swing sets. Sometimes Sherlock envied them for having such a carefree existence and sometimes Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of them.

It made him sick to his stomach just to watch them run and giggle and fall down...

It only reminded him of just how screwed up people like him were and it pushed him further into his self-loathing. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and turned his head away from the children in disgrace. No! He wasn't sick... Not any more. Sherlock had learned many years ago how to suppress his urges and function somewhat as a normal human being like everyone else. He was stronger than this. He could beat it by pure will if he really wanted to, and he can. Sherlock wasn't ill.

The light turned green and the cab took of down the street, leaving the root of Sherlock's illness in the shrinking distance.

He should really consider moving. After all, it's been nearly eight years. A change of scenery is what Sherlock needs now more than ever. Maybe that's what he'll do today to suppress the dull ache of boredom, he's got nothing better to do anyway. Surely there must be someone looking for a flatmate that's desperate enough to take him on as a tenant, right?

Rent was ghastly this side of London and it was nearly impossible to sustain a residence on a mediocre salary. If anything, Sherlock would be doing this potential flatmate a favor by helping with the bills, if they could handle his outrageous behavior, that is. Sherlock was never keen on holding his breath for acceptance by others anyhow because he didn't deserve it.

Nearly two hours later and after dozens of doors being slammed in his face, Sherlock had lost all hope. Not that he had started with much anyway, but his patience was wearing thin as the day dragged on. Sherlock was running out of options fast because people had set there standards too high to accommodate someone like Sherlock. But perhaps he shouldn't have insulted them before he was even invited in.

Some time during the past half hour it had started to rain and Sherlock trudged down the street hurriedly, pulling his collar up against the rain as he watched the road for any cabs. Might as well go home for the day, he figured, since nothing was coming up anyway. Sherlock didn't actually think he was going to move out all in one day, did he? It didn't stop him from trying though.

Sherlock was ready to hail an oncoming cab when he spotted a bulletin board sheltered from the rain by a kiosk across the street. When there was a momentary gap in traffic, Sherlock looked both ways before dashing across like a maniac. Car horns resounded all over the street as he stomped his way through puddles and potholes, dodging cars like a mad man.

Once he got under to protection of the kiosk Sherlock scanned the bulletin board and willfully ignored the various shouts of obscenities from passing motorists. His eyes quickly picked up on all the information posted there, mentally discarding what was useless and filing away the things that had promise for the moment.

Most of it was rubbish. Flyers for some obscure bands playing at a local hot spot or people looking for pet sitters and the like. Some of it seemed important though, like awareness posters about serious diseases and health care. Relief washed over Sherlock like the water droplets running down his face when he saw an advert for a room to rent. He snagged it off the bulletin board and hopped in the first cab he could get.

Soon after Sherlock found himself standing in front of the address on the flyer he nicked from the bulletin board. 221b Baker street, just a few blocks down the road from the kiosk. It was a relatively quiet area where nothing too significant ever happened, which was a plus so far, and it was far away from any debilitating vices.

It was pouring by now, his curls much darker and messier than before, and his clothes were soggy from standing still for too long in the rain. Sherlock knocked urgently four times and waited for someone to answer, hoping that they were in. At this point Sherlock wasn't as dead set on getting a place as he could've been, he just wanted to be out of the rain for a moment, so if he's lucky the door won't be slammed in his face this time.

After another long beat Sherlock could hear footsteps descending down the stairs and the door being unlatched. He tugged on his coat and ran his hands through his hair, trying to make himself as presentable as possible but failing tragically as the wind and rain made it a point to ruin any success. Sherlock took a step back as the front door opened.

A young man answered the door by cracking it open by a margin, trying to keep the rain and wind from invading the complex. He poked blonde his head out of the threshold and Sherlock put on his best, if not a little weak, fake smile. Clearly he wasn't the landlord considering his youthful age but Sherlock felt there was no harm in some extra insurance. He was getting desperate.

"May I help you?" The young man asked, looking Sherlock up and down with a skeptical eye.

"Yes, I saw your flyer down the road a ways and was hoping you still had a room available?" Sherlock spoke swiftly, his voice unwavering even though every fiber in him wanted to break down and shiver.

"Oh yes, of course!" The blonde exclaimed merrily, opening the door wide enough to let Sherlock in. "Come in quick before you catch your death of cold!"

Sherlock was more than willing to oblige the young man's request as he was ushered in by enthusiastic hands. The door was shut promptly behind him, pushing in the last gust of cold air inside with them. The warmth engulfed Sherlock too fast and a shudder wracked his body in the most delightful way.

"It's just this way," the younger man informed with a pat to Sherlock's back, ascending the stairs to the second floor with Sherlock in tow. When they got to the top he asked, "May I take your coat?"

"By all means," Sherlock mumbled as he took a look around the place.

It was a little cluttered with various medical books and magazines but he figured it was habitable enough since his own place doesn't look any better. Sherlock shrugged his coat off when the blonde came up behind him and peeled the damp material off his shoulders, hanging it to dry momentarily on the coat rack.

"Sorry, I really should've cleaned up a bit," the young man excused when he saw his potential flatmate eye the clutter precariously. "To be honest, you're the first person to respond in two weeks."

"Clearly," Sherlock sighed heavily, not really meaning to sound condescending.

He tugged off his scarf and held it out to one side as if waiting for the young man to hang that as well and he did. Sherlock turned around and came face to face with the young man, catching him off guard for a second. It was his first time getting a good look at him since he arrived.

Something was awfully familiar about this particular young man, like déjà vu had hit him full force and knocked him to the ground. Big ears, long nose, subtle mousy features that seem to make him look like a ferret or even a hedgehog. Strange how some people can resemble animals... But Sherlock has always been good at remembering faces, so where has he seen this man before?

His attention is quickly diverted when he notices the blonde man's chewed up fingernails and it's all the fuel he needed to know everything.

"Oxford or Cambridge?" Sherlock inquired with a smirk. The young man stared up at him curiously.

"I'm sorry?" The blonde asks after a beat.

"University," Sherlock clarifies quickly. "It's quite obvious you plan on going to some sort of uni in the near future."

"Obvious?" The young man asks skeptically. "How could you possibly know that?"

"You have ink smudges just below your wrist, possibly filling out resumes. You're left-handed. Dark circles under your eyes so you haven't slept in twenty-six hours. Medical books everywhere. Better make that thirty-two hours. There are pressure marks from reading glasses just across the bridge of your nose. You want to go to uni but with your salary that might be a problem. So you study, medicine obviously. Your hair is neatly kept so you've had it recently cut. Neatly ironed jumper, jeans, Keds. Nothing too fancy. You've kept up your appearance mostly for job interviews since you earn minimum wage, hence the advert. So, Oxford or Cambridge?"

"I haven't really decided yet- Do even breathe when you talk?" The shorter man asks perplexed after a long pause, mouth agape from the display of intellectual prowess.

"Breathing is boring."

"Right... You just figured all this out just by looking at me? Am I supposed to believe that?" The blonde inquires somewhat sarcastically.

"Science of deduction. I observe more thoroughly than the average person and I make my own deductions from the facts presented to me," Sherlock enlightens.

"So you make educated guesses?" The short man contradicts, studying the lines of Sherlock's face.

"It's not a guess if I'm right."

"And you're always right, are you?"

"Well, am I wrong about you?" Sherlock retorts, raising his eyebrows.

"Who are you?" The young man asks, frozen in awe and bewilderment as he completely ignores his question.

He's never met anyone like this man before in his life time but even as he thinks this, he knows he's wrong because he 's a faint flicker familiarity in the those bright irises and for a moment the shorter of the two swears he's seen this man before, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

The blonde man's mouth snaps shut and his breath is taken away from altogether. It couldn't be. Hearing that name rings bells inside of his head and he suddenly remembers.

"You have a silly name," John says to Sherlock slowly, recalling each word as if it were yesterday.

Sherlock's face goes blank as he says these words and in this moment it all came crashing back with a vengeance and Sherlock no longer felt sure about himself or his progress with his illness. If anything, seeing this kid all grown up after all these years had sent him back to square one.

"Well, you have a silly nose..." Sherlock remarks just as slowly, tapping the tip of John's long nose like he had eight years ago.

But all Sherlock can see is eleven year old John Watson falling and scraping his knee.


End file.
